


carry me home

by sepiacigarettes



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepiacigarettes/pseuds/sepiacigarettes
Summary: The next morning dawns, a brilliance of oranges and reds and the faintest hint of pink that makes Lio think of the flames he once controlled. But the spark is gone. His fingertips do not ignite when he asks them to.In order to heal, one must first burn.But Lio is freezing.Or: on the edge of a burning city, Lio learns to heal





	carry me home

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Promare for the first time yesterday and honest to god that was a spiritual experience and my life will never be the same

> Barely catchin' my breath
> 
> Lay my eyes on the crest
> 
> Gonna square up to all of the heat that is left
> 
> So, I carry the torch to inferno!
> 
> Trails of fire
> 
> You always knew
> 
> They would carry me home
> 
> They'd lead me to you
> 
> — Hiroyuki Sawano, _ Inferno _

— L —

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

Of this, Lio is familiar with. His body is used to going through the same cycle every living moment: of burning and healing and burning and healing. They chase each other around and around inside of him in a never ending loop.

It’s comforting. It reminds him he’s alive.

The sun sets on the first day of the new world, and it sets the sky ablaze. Lio knows flames, knows the mad urge to burn everything in sight; he’s used to the Promare constantly eating away at him and telling him to consume.

He is not used to the silence.

It turns his whole body to ice.

It bites his fingers, freezes his limbs. He lies in the darkness, in the quiet, and feels the cold shake and rattle his bones until he’s sobbing with it, curling deeper into the coverlet. It pours from him like a tidal wave, the glacier solidifying within him and rendering him useless.

_ Breath, Lio, _he tells himself.

There is no one else to tell him so.

The next morning dawns, a brilliance of oranges and reds and the faintest hint of pink that makes Lio think of the flames he once controlled. But the spark is gone. His fingertips do not ignite when he asks them to.

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

But Lio is freezing.

He’s freezing from the inside out, and there’s no healing from this.

— L —

The sky smells like destruction.

The smouldering ruins are still hot, the pillars of smoke littering the city undeterred by the brief torrential downpour that was promised by the morning’s sunrise.

Lio picks himself across the rubble with Galo, grateful for his incessant chatting as they walk with Galo’s Burning Rescue squad. Lio does not say much, but then he hardly needs to; if he ever was required to, Galo would talk enough for the two of them combined.

“Sleep well?” Galo asks, ignorant.

Lio wonders what he has to put in his hair for it to remain that upright. “Fine,” he lies.

Galo grins at him, all teeth and heroism and every bit as confident as he was yesterday, when he fistbumped Lio and said they would rebuild together. At the time, Lio had agreed, because it was true: _ in order to heal, one must first burn. _

The world would do the same, and so would he.

Except now he feels like the crack of a lake in winter, like the evenings when the sun is behind the clouds and the wind bends the world to its will. If bodies are sixty percent water at the best of times, Lio is drowning in himself.

The emptiness within him is suffocating.

He wonders if he will ever come up for air.

— L —

Promepolis rebuilds itself from the ground with the speed of a forest fire. The city is frightfully efficient, resurrecting its skyrises and pathways. Architects are brought in. The excess of fire hydrants are removed.

After that first day, the sunset becomes a nightly thing.

At the end of every long day, Lio will sit on the edge of their city and wonder. The Sun will paint the sky prettily as it says goodbye for the day, and Lio allows himself to become lost in the colourful display, in the oranges and violets and harsh streaks of gold.

Galo sits next to him. He has a wonderful body, broad shoulders, a narrow waist. During their sunsets, Lio indulges not only in the changing of the guard, but the contours of Galo’s back, too.

He asks about the sleeve, once, puts his foot in it by saying, “If you're so determined to remain shirtless, what's with the get up?”

Galo looks away and Lio can count on one hand the amount of times Galo has never talked straight off the bat, and it swoops somewhere low in Lio’s belly, this slimy feeling of regret. He’s hit a nerve.

“From the fire when I was little,” Galo says quietly. “It's ugly. All scarred and shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Lio whispers.

Galo fakes a laugh, and it’s empty, emptier than Lio feels.

After so long with fire inside him, the Promare’s absence _ aches_.

“Can I see?” He doesn’t know why he asks.

Galo shrugs and then reaches up, untying the sleeve. “There.”

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

Lio surprises himself when he finds himself calling on his powers, wanting the regeneration to give Galo unmarred skin.

But they do not answer his call. Lio does not know why he asked in the first place.

Galo was wrong; it isn’t him that’s the idiot, it’s Lio.

— L —

With no more Burnish, the divide between society crumbles like a house of cards.

Lio’s responsibility as Burnish leader fades away the more his people settle into their new roles. Acceptance comes swiftly for everyone, but not Lio.

First the Promare, and now his purpose.

Lio is even more lost than ever.

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

His insides are nothing but frost; the shards pierce his organs.

So he chases the fire instead, runs until his lungs burst, lies in the sun until he thinks the heat might melt him, stands in front of the stove with his hands on the burner until Galo pulls him away.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands, running Lio’s hands under running water. “You could have burned alive, idiot.”

Lio says nothing.

When Galo turns off the taps eventually, he investigates the reddened skin of Lio’s fingertips. “Idiot,” he mutters again. “Do you want to end up with my arm? You can die now, Lio!”

He doesn’t shake Lio, but his words do.

Lio heaves.

He chokes on icicles.

“Lio? Oh.” And then, “Shit—Lio—”

It leaves him in a blinding, whirling mess. Lio hates it all. It numbs him, it breaks him. He’s the shadow of the moon, the closing of doors to keep the cold out. He’s the chill of the evening, the fading of the light from the day, the unwanted, the darkness.

Galo’s hands are warm. They press onto his shoulders, against his cheeks.

“Lio,” Galo says. “I’m sorry.”

But the tears don’t stop.

Lio folds in on himself, wishing it would end.

Galo makes a noise in the back of his throat, and then he takes off his jacket. It’s heavy when he wraps it around Lio’s body. Lio thinks perhaps it could be a shroud, a brilliant yellow and red to be buried in.

“I’m sorry, Lio,” Galo says as Lio’s icy grief pours onto the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

— L —

The cold stays.

Galo refuses to take his jacket back. Lio keeps it, but only because it warms him.

To stay busy, he and Gueira and Meis learn the ways of firefighting.

Galo’s Burning Rescue team welcome him with open arms. They’re a sprightly bunch, full of energy. They do not question him when he does not talk much; rather, like Galo, they fill the spaces.

It’s a comfort.

Remi always tells Galo to shut up. Varys makes sure they all do their weights properly in the gym. Of all of them, Lucia, the small one with Vinny the Rat, speaks the fastest, and ninety percent of it is technical jargon. She’s desperate to know of Lio’s mecha, but it hurts to talk too much about it, and after the third day, when Lio is fighting back a wall of emotion, Galo steps in.

“Maybe later, Lucia, huh?” he says.

_ “Fine,” _ she answers.

“Let’s go home,” Galo says.

Lio nods and follows, grateful.

They watch the sunset over dinner of rice and a questionable meat that Galo cooks. Lio chews silently, letting Galo talk about earlier today when he wrestled with building pylons for the better part of five hours.

Lio can see it now, the idiot sweating in the morning sun.

Moonrise comes with cleaned dishes, and then Galo prods him in the direction of his room. Since the first night, Lio has been sleeping there. Galo insisted—and still does—on using the couch.

Lio protested for the first few weeks, but Galo’s stubborness is a mountain that bows to no one.

It is futile.

So Lio lets himself be prodded, and after showering, watching the water go down the drain and wishing it could take him too, he sinks into the mattress.

It still smells like Galo.

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

He’s not burning, Lio thinks, not quite. 

But he is thawing. And for now, that’s enough.

— L —

When Winter announces her arrival in a flurry of snow, Lio expects to feel like he belongs, like if he could step outside, the cold would see him as kin and welcome him.

But he does not.

Instead, Lio watches Galo and wonders at the new flame that sets itself alight in his chest.

It is not a Burnish flame. It does not beg him to do anything, rather, it is an ache, something bittersweet and almost tender, and it settles in his ribcage and makes itself at home.

For the first time in his life, Lio questions why he is burning.

He questions the hum of it, the slow melt of it in his lungs, this breathlessness that does not come from anything other than hearing Galo say his name.

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

But oh, what a weird and wonderful way to.

At the edge of the city, during another of their many sunsets together, with a world cloaked in white and frost, Galo slings his arm around Lio’s neck.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

The flame within Lio warms his cheeks. “Better,” he says honestly.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Lio,” Galo says, and his finger touches Lio’s face.

“Don’t be,” Lio breathes.

The flame follows the path Galo’s finger takes down Lio’s jaw. He touches Lio’s mouth, expression pensive.

“I’m glad it’s over,” Lio says, scared of his heart and the way it pounds in his chest.

Galo must take the words as a dismissal, because his hand falls.

Lio does not chase it.

Instead he thinks of their reality now: Promepolis is rebuilt, the wounds of the world have closed over, the scar tissue is forming.

“I wish it had never happened,” Galo admits.

“I don’t,” Lio says, because he might feel the loss of the Promare like a limb, and it’s true, the way grief does not get better, rather Lio thinks he’s used to it instead, and it does not hurt to face as much as it once did. “We wouldn’t have met, otherwise.” And then, so Galo does not let the compliment go to his head, Lio says, “Although, you _ are _an idiot, Galo Thymos.”

“Hey,” Galo protests. “We make a good team. You’re the brains, I’m the looks.”

“I thought _ I _ was the looks,” Lio says quietly, not stopping to ask himself why he’s lowered his voice like so, why the heat within him suddenly spikes.

Galo makes a face. “You wish you were.”

Lio can’t help it; he grins at Galo, and Galo’s nose stains pink.

“Are you saying I don’t look good?”

Galo waves a hand at him. He’s deflecting. “Mah, I never said that. You’re not bad looking, I guess.”

“You’ve kissed me,” Lio retorts. “So I’m better than just that.”

Galo’s mouth works as he tries to come up with something and in the end his flustered flapping is more than enough of a reward. Lio laughs.

Galo pulls him in to rub his knuckles into Lio’s hair. “Bastard.”

“Idiot,” Lio shoots back.

The sun delivers its final ray of light to the horizon, and then the world is bathed in night. Galo does not shift. Neither does Lio.

“Hey,” Galo says. “We should head home.”

“Yes,” Lio agrees.

Home, to Galo’s apartment. Galo turns on the television, refuses to meet Lio’s eyes. In the blue light of the screen behind him, Lio watches Galo’s silhouette, the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips.

Then he looks away and heads for the bedroom.

He hears the slip of clothes against skin as Galo changes, and then hovers at the doorway, unsure.

When he looks back to Galo, the fire in his chest becomes a furnace.

“Galo?” he asks softly.

“Yeah?” Galo says loudly, like he’s trying to compensate for something.

Lio’s fingers grip the door jamb and turn white. Then he rounds on his heel and marches over to Galo.

“I’m better than ‘not bad looking’,” he says, a smokescreen.

“Of course you are,” Galo murmurs. “Of _ course _you are.”

Lio reaches for him then, for the hem of his shirt, for the collar as he leans up. “You kissed me once,” he says.

Galo nods, fingers on Lio’s face now, and he’s warm, so warm, and the furnace within Lio is building, climbing higher with every passing second. “I did.”

“Kiss me again,” Lio demands, terrified.

Galo tilts Lio’s head up. “Okay.”

The fire within Lio _ roars. _

— L —

They kiss in the living room, mouths desperate and messy and wanting everything all at once. Galo’s shirt is lost in the first minute, Lio’s in the next. Galo’s hands are huge and they pull Lio’s hair, haul him up into Galo’s arms so that he can stumble to the bedroom.

Laid out on the sheets, Lio feels like a wreck. Galo smothers him in kisses, tongue slipping into Lio’s mouth, hands working on Lio’s belts and unfastening his pants. He’s frenzied, out of control, and Lio welcomes it, helpless and buzzing.

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

But Lio has never felt a burn like this before. It hums in his veins, leaves him gasping, asking for more. His body yearns for it.

Galo is there to answer the call, his mouth hot and open on the inside of Lio’s thigh, his teeth grazing the tender skin there. His mouth is wet and unbearable when it closes over Lio’s dick, when Galo swallows him all the way down and sucks hard on the way up.

“Galo,” Lio swears, head thrown back, lost.

“Say my name again,” Galo growls, hand replacing his mouth as he licks the sweat off Lio’s chest, flicks fingertips over a nipple.

“Galo,” Lio gasps out, arching against him.

This type of blaze is all consuming.

Lio gladly offers himself up for it.

A finger breaches him then, relentless in the chase for more heat. When Lio grunts, asks for more, Galo withdraws it, comes back with fresh lubricant and slides two in this time.

“What do you feel?” he asks gruffly.

_ Heat, _ Lio thinks dazedly. _ Fire. Light. A million and one ways to burn. _

“You,” he rasps.

It’s the right answer. Galo’s grin is triumphant as he kisses Lio’s knee, lines his cock up, and gently eases in.

“Fuck,” Galo groans, and Lio can only gasp as he looks up at him, as he welcomes Galo inside his body.

It burns.

“Please don’t stop,” Lio whispers.

Galo does not.

Galo’s hips are relentless and he drives into Lio with even more energy than what he puts into his firefighting. Lio thought he would boast about this, like he boasts in all things, but instead he whimpers into Lio’s neck, hands flying from Lio’s waist to his ass to spread him further, to Lio’s knees to push them to his chest, to Lio’s fingers to tangle together.

Lio moans and gives and takes with abandon, on fire in the best possible way.

“Don’t stop,” he says again, panting, writhing under Galo, falling to pieces and wanting nothing more.

“No,” Galo agrees, and he’s a supernova above Lio.

“Light me on fire,” Lio begs.

“Yeah, Lio, I will, I promise—”

Galo always delivers on his promises.

— L —

Lio’s body does not burn nor heal anymore. The Promare is not here to remind him he is alive, and so instead, Lio sits with Galo to watch the sunset. The silence within him is a dull ache, something Lio suspects will never leave him.

But there are other sources of warmth, like the light that stretches across the sky, and the notion that after this, he and Galo will spend the evening with the Burning Rescue team, watching a movie. And there is Galo behind him, holding him close, a solid line of heat on Lio’s body.

_ In order to heal, one must first burn. _

_ It’s true, _ Lio thinks.

But oh, what a wonderful thing it is, to simply be warm instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Bug me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sepiacigarettes/)!


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